THE PONT NEUF CAVE IN PARIS

                                                 

                        
                                            

  ( Avtar Mota in Paris.Pont Neuf is in the background )

The Pont Neuf Cave : Street-Artist JR Transforms Paris’s Oldest Bridge into a Mountain

On a gray-skied afternoon in early June 2026, the Pont-Neuf stopped being a bridge. From the air, it looked like a chain of snow-covered peaks slicing across the Seine ,  a mirage of alpine stone and ice where cars and pedestrians usually cross. On my visit to Gallimard Publishing House ( Editions Gallimard) , I saw this amazing artistic creation. Incidentally, Albert Camus worked at a senior position  at Gallimard ,Paris from 1943  till his death in 1960  .

This is “The Pont Neuf cave”,  French photographer and street artist JR’s latest monumental illusion. For about a month, Paris’s oldest standing bridge will be  wrapped in a full-scale trompe-l’œil that has turned the  16th-century masonry into a prehistoric landscape.

Who Is JR?

 JR is a French photographer and street artist who works anonymously, recognisable only by his fedora and dark sunglasses. Born Jean Rene in Paris in 1983, he pastes monumental black-and-white photographs in public spaces to reframe how we see them ;  from making the Louvre Pyramid vanish in 2016 to turning the Pont-Neuf into a mountain cave in 2026. His projects are participatory and deliberately ephemeral: the 2011 TED Prize-winning ,'Inside Out' has seen over 500,000 portraits displayed worldwide, while, 'Face 2 Face' placed Israelis and Palestinians side by side on the separation wall. JR favours anamorphic illusions and ordinary faces on grand façades, using scale and surprise to question identity, borders and permanence. The work is free, temporary and often unauthorised; once removed, only the altered perspective remains.

The illusion  

JR’s team covered the entire span with printed fabric that mimics craggy limestone cliffs, extending the bridge’s arches into a continuous rock face. Above, inflated white volumes rise like glaciers or karst formations, their ridges and shadows painted with photographic precision. The effect is disorienting: the Pont-Neuf, inaugurated by Henri IV in 1607, appears to have been carved from a mountain rather than built across a river.

From the quays, you walk  through the cave. From above, , you can see a mountain range bisecting the city. Tour boats drift under stone arches that never existed, and the dome of the Institut de France seems to sit at the foot of a cliff.

Brief History of Pont Neuf

 The Pont-Neuf is the oldest standing bridge across the Seine in Paris, despite its name meaning “New Bridge”. Commissioned by Henri IV in 1578 and completed in 1607, it was revolutionary for its time: the first Parisian bridge built without houses, with pavements to protect pedestrians from mud and traffic, and wide enough to become a hub of public life. Spanning 232 metres, its twelve arches link the Right Bank, the Île de la Cité, and the Left Bank, anchored by the equestrian statue of Henri IV at its centre. Constructed in limestone and characterised by its series of mascarons : 381 carved stone faces along the cornices ,  it has witnessed four centuries of Parisian history, from royal processions to street theatre. Today it remains a vital thoroughfare and a beloved landmark, periodically reimagined by artists such as Christo, who wrapped it in 1985, and JR, who transformed it into a mountain cave in 2026.

Why the Pont-Neuf?

JR has a habit of targeting monuments that carry weight. He made the Louvre Pyramid vanish in 2016 and cracked open the Palazzo Strozzi in Florence in 2021. The Pont-Neuf is deliberate: despite its name, “New Bridge,” it’s the oldest in Paris. It survived revolutions, Haussmann, world wars, and Christo’s 1985 wrapping. JR’s intervention digs deeper, literally. Paris is built on limestone :  the stone for Notre-Dame and the Louvre came from quarries under the city. By turning the bridge back into raw rock, JR collapses architecture into geology, reminding Parisians that their city stands on the skeleton of an ancient sea.

The “cave” also nods to Plato’s allegory: are we looking at the bridge, or just shadows on a wall? In 2026, as Paris continues reshaping itself post-Olympics and post-Notre-Dame restoration, the piece asks what’s permanent and what’s projection.

The Logistics of An Epiphany

Like all JR’s works, The Pont Neuf cave is temporary. Installed over several nights to minimize disruption, it uses recyclable printed canvas and air-inflated structures anchored to the bridge. No stone was touched. Crowds gather daily on the Île de la Cité and Quai du Louvre, phones out, trying to catch the exact spot where masonry becomes mountain. 

By June’s end, it will be gone. The bridge will return to stone, the illusion will live only in photos like this one  and in memory. That’s the point. JR doesn’t make monuments. He makes moments that change how you see the ones that are already there.

In a city obsessed with permanence, The Pont Neuf cave is a reminder: even the oldest bridge can become something new, if only for a moment.

( Avtar Mota )

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.

Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.

SHASHI SHEKHAR TOSHAKHANI : THE EXCEPTIONAL TRANSLATOR

                                  

SHASHI SHEKHAR TOSHAKHANI : THE EXCEPTIONAL  TRANSLATOR 

Dr Shashi Shekhar Toshakhani was an exceptional translator .  He has rendered an invaluable service to Indian literature by translating Kashmiri poetry into Hindi combining  rare sensitivity ,scholarly depth with such fidelity that readers feel the original’s emotional pulse while gaining a richer and  more expansive sense of both languages.  His  Hindi renderings of Kashmiri poetry don’t merely echo the originals ,  they often seem to deepen them, as great translations often  do.  In Toshakhani’s hands, the act of translation becomes an act of enrichment ;  the original verse remains the root, but the Hindi blossom carries its fragrance further. Here is a sample :

(Sonzal Rangan Heinz )

Bahaaruk Jashan ,

Zan ta golaaluv rata zool kormut,

Chhaet ta chhaeini sotariv alfaal ,

Soant hawaavas vaanij kooraan ,

Saani azal samayuk yendher ti thhok,

Ye chhot, ye sabz, ye anaari,

Ye ledhur , ye vozul tosa kataan .

Ye tchandara talwaar ti phut,

Hu gaashi taarukh ti pyav vaess,

Neelis  aakaashas obur nabas kun ma vuchh ,

Patchhi haendis ainna pattis chhu doth vasaan,

Panuni angzari ta arup buthi .

Khawaaban haenz ye sonzal vuchhith

Mataa vanna ta zi

Bemaaran sandhor…

( Syed Rasool Pompur )

And this is Dr Shashi Shekhar Toshkhani’s superb Hindi  translation :

(Rangon ka Indradhanush)

(Bahaar ka utsav ,

Arunima anant gulaalon ki ,

Khaali ,

Akele ,

Sooti hal ,

Jaise vasanti hawa ke

Kaleije mein chubey huve ,

Charkha thhak gaya.

Hamaare bhaagya ke samay ka

Yeh safed , yeh hara , yeh anaar ke rang ka ,

Yeh peela , yeh laal pashmeena kaatatay,

Yeh pheekey rang Jodatay ,

Yeh talwaar bhi aadhe chaand ki toot gayee ,

Woh bhor ka taara bhi gir gayaa ,

Woh Neel gagan ,

Megha-chhan

Mat dekho,

Aasthaa ke darpan chhat par baras rahein hain oulay,

Darpan ke tukaday jod kar kyaa dekhogay,

Apney asankhya aakaarheen chehray,

Rangon ka talwaarnuma

Yeh paare ka indradhanush dekh,

Yeh mat kaho ki,

Beemar theek  ho  gaya …….)

(“रंगों का इन्द्रधनुष”)

बहार का उत्सव!

अरुणिमा अनन्त गुल-ए-लालों की,

खाली,

अकेले,

सूती हाल,

जैसे वासन्ती हवा के

कलेजे में चुभे हुए,

चरखा थक गया।

हमारे भाग्य के समय का

यह सफेद, यह हरा, यह अनार के रंग का,

यह पीला, यह लाल पश्मीना कातते,

यह फीके रंग जोड़ते,

यह तलवार भी आधे चाँद की टूट गई,

वह भोर का तारा भी गिर गया,

वह नील गगन,

मेघ-छन्न—

मत देखो।

आस्था के दर्पण छत पर बरस रहे हैं ओले,

दर्पण के टुकड़े जोड़ कर क्या देखोगे,

अपने असंख्य आकारहीन चेहरे?

रंगों का तलवारनुमा

यह पारे का इन्द्रधनुष देख।

यह मत कहो कि—

“बीमार ठीक हो गया…”

( Avtar Mota )

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.

Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.

A SMALL TRIBUTE TO SHASHI SHEKHAR TOSHAKHANI

                                                                               

                                    ( The author with S S Toshakhani, January 2026, Jammu )
     

A  Small Tribute   Shashi Shekhar Toshakhani

The passing of Shashi Shekhar Toshakhani marks the end of an era in the intellectual and cultural life of Kashmir. With him departs not merely an eminent scholar, but a towering repository of knowledge, wisdom, integrity and clarity, whose like is rarely encountered in a lifetime.

An illustrious son of the equally distinguished scholar Professor Srikanth Toshakhani, he inherited a rich legacy of learning and enriched it manifold through his own scholarship, dedication and intellectual rigour. The sad plight of women in the tradition-bound and orthodox Kashmiri Pandit society was powerfully portrayed in Leela, a Kashmiri novel written by Srikanth Toshakhani in 1923. Shashi Shekhar Toshakhani not only inherited his father's intellectual legacy but carried it forward with distinction, establishing himself as one of the foremost scholars of Kashmir in modern times.

A distinguished Sanskrit scholar, linguist, author, poet, grammarian and polyglot, Shashi Shekhar Toshakhani belonged to that increasingly rare breed of scholars whose erudition was matched by depth of understanding and an unwavering commitment to truth. What made him truly exceptional was not merely the vastness of his knowledge but the extraordinary clarity with which he communicated it. Few could match his scholarship and insight in matters relating to the ancient texts of Kashmir, the interpretation of Sanskrit and Sharda manuscripts, the history of ideas, and the immense contribution of Kashmir to the broader fabric of Indic civilisation.

He remained closely associated with the internationally renowned Buddhist scholar, linguist and polyglot, Dr Lokesh Chandra, and shared with him a lifelong commitment to the preservation, study and dissemination of India's civilisational heritage. Through decades of painstaking scholarship, he emerged as one of the most authoritative voices on Kashmir's intellectual traditions and cultural history.

In an age marked by superficiality and noise, he embodied intellectual precision and honesty. Whenever one approached him with a question, however complex, one invariably returned with a clearer understanding. His scholarship was never obscured by needless complexity; rather, it illuminated difficult subjects with remarkable lucidity and balance.

His mastery of Kashmiri Shaivism had no parallel. He possessed that rare gift of illuminating profound philosophical concepts without diminishing their complexity. The most intricate metaphysical ideas became lucid under his guidance. He was not merely a scholar of the tradition; he was among its finest interpreters and exponents in contemporary times. For students and researchers alike, conversations with him often became journeys of discovery into the deepest layers of Kashmir's philosophical heritage.

What I admired most about him, apart from his scholarship, was his uncompromising commitment to truth. Falsehood, distortion and manipulation irritated him profoundly. He had little patience for intellectual dishonesty or convenient misrepresentations. He was a man who called a spade a spade. He never hesitated to speak the truth as he saw it, without fear or favour, regardless of whom it pleased or displeased. In an age when many choose comfort over conviction, he stood firmly by principle. That moral courage was as remarkable as his scholarship.

His literary and scholarly output was immense. Apart from hundreds of research papers, essays and articles published in reputed journals and periodicals, he authored several important books that have made a lasting contribution to the study of Kashmir's history, literature, religion and culture. Among his most notable works are Kashmiri Sahitya Ka Itihaas (Hindi), Lal Ded: The Great Kashmiri Saint-Poetess (English), Rites and Rituals of Kashmiri Brahmins (English), Kaha Tha Rishi Ne ( Hindi translation of the shrukhs of Nund Rishi) and Cultural Heritage of Kashmiri Pandits, co-authored with Professor K Warikoo. These works are not merely books; they are enduring repositories of knowledge. Kashmiri Sahitya Ka Itihaas remains one of the most comprehensive studies of Kashmiri literary history available in Hindi. His work on Lal Ded introduced generations of readers to the life, philosophy and poetic genius of Kashmir's greatest mystic poetess. Rites and Rituals of Kashmiri Brahmins has become an indispensable reference for understanding the religious customs, ceremonies and cultural practices of the Kashmiri Pandit community. Through Kaha Tha Rishi Ne, he made the spiritual wisdom of Nund Rishi accessible to a wider readership. At the same time, the Cultural Heritage of Kashmiri Pandits stands as an invaluable document preserving the memory, traditions and civilisational contributions of a community whose heritage deserves careful preservation. Today, these books are widely regarded as authoritative reference works. Scholars, researchers, students and general readers continue to turn to them for reliable information, thoughtful analysis and meticulous documentation. Their enduring relevance is a testament to the depth of his scholarship and the care with which he approached every subject. In preserving and interpreting Kashmir's intellectual and cultural heritage, he rendered a service whose value will only grow with time.

I had the privilege of knowing him personally. There was an effortless grace in his scholarship and an unaffected humility in his conduct. Whenever I found myself confronted by a difficult textual problem, a historical ambiguity or a philosophical puzzle, it was invariably to him that I turned. Every clarification I sought, every intellectual knot in which I found myself entangled, was patiently unravelled by him with a clarity uniquely his own. Time and again, he rescued me from confusion and uncertainty. For this generosity of spirit and learning, I shall remain forever indebted to him.

He would quote Jayadeva, Kalidasa, Bilhana, Kshemendra, Kalhana, and many others with an almost effortless familiarity, moving across the Sanskrit tradition as though it were a lived intellectual landscape rather than a field of study. His engagement with European literature  and philosophy was equally deep and wide-ranging. He read Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Husserl, Heidegger, Karl Jaspers, Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, and Camus not as isolated thinkers but as part of a continuous, unfolding conversation about existence, consciousness, and freedom. Within that constellation, he was especially drawn to Albert Camus, whom he clearly esteemed more than Jean-Paul Sartre. He could speak with equal ease about Jean Genet, Andre Gide, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Kafka, Chekhov, Maupassant, Hemingway, and Allen Ginsberg. What stood out was not merely the breadth of his reading, but the discernment with which he moved between voices and sensibilities, as though each author were part of an internal, carefully arranged dialogue.

He took evident delight in the photographs I sent from Paris, especially those of the graves of Sartre and Camus, which seemed to him to carry a quiet symbolic weight. The images from France that I shared in 2023 and again in 2025 were received not as casual travel impressions, but as fragments of a world to which he felt intellectually and emotionally attuned. In one of our exchanges over WhatsApp, he suggested that I turn to the Katha Upanishad, proposing it as a way of re-encountering Camus through a different metaphysical and contemplative lens. I followed his advice and found in it an unexpected but illuminating return to Camus’s enduring reflections on mortality, meaning, and the limits of human understanding.

I met him a few months ago in Jammu, where he had come to perform the Yajnopavita ceremony of his grandson. That final meeting remains one of my most cherished memories. One of my fondest hopes was that he would write the foreword to my new book, “Songs Beneath a Lost Sky”. He had graciously expressed his willingness to do so. I regarded it as a singular honour and looked forward to the privilege of having his words introduce my work. Alas, fate decreed otherwise. Before that wish could be realised, he was admitted to the hospital suffering from a serious ailment.

Like many who knew his indomitable intellect and resilient spirit, I believed he would fight his way back to health. I hoped that this too would pass and that he would once again return to the world of books, creative work and ideas that he loved so deeply. But it was not so destined. None can challenge the will of the Almighty. We may hope, pray and strive, yet ultimately there are forces beyond human control.

His passing leaves a void not only in the fields of Sanskrit studies, Kashmiri studies and Indian intellectual history, but also in the lives of all those who had the privilege of learning from him. Through his writings, lectures, painstaking work on manuscripts, and profound insights into Kashmir's intellectual heritage, he preserved and illuminated an invaluable civilisational legacy for future generations.

Shashi Shekhar Toshakhani was not merely a scholar of Kashmir. He was one of its finest custodians, a guardian of its intellectual memory, and a bridge between its glorious past and its future. His scholarship was monumental, his clarity unmatched, and his contribution enduring. As we mourn his passing, we also celebrate a life devoted to learning, truth and the pursuit of knowledge. The man may have departed, but the light he kindled in countless minds shall continue to shine.

I bow my head in gratitude for having known him, for having learned from him, and for having benefited from his wisdom. His memory will remain a source of inspiration, and his absence a source of profound sorrow.

May his noble soul attain Sadgati and Moksha.  Om Shanti.

(Avtar Mota)

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.
Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.

WHEN MAPLE BECOMES CHINAR

                             

The Metaphysics of Shade: When the Maple Becomes the Chinar

The maple in Paris and the Chinar in Kashmir are two expressions of the same metaphysical fact: that grandeur is not a matter of geography, but of rootedness. The apparent similarities are many. Both trees share a palmate leaf structure, the blades opening like a hand with pointed fingers, veined and noble. Both achieve great height, rising tall with an imposing presence that interrupts the skyline and makes a person look upward. Both are famed for the depth of shade they give. The traveller, weary from sun or from thought, finds under each a sanctuary of cool stillness. In autumn, both put on the same ritual garment. The canopy shifts to a golden hue, then to amber and crimson, and the ground becomes a script of fallen leaves. Winter strips them with equal candour. They stand in the nakedness of a Faquir, all pretence shed, the intricate architecture of branch and bough laid bare against grey skies. Yet this bareness is not death. With spring comes the rebirth of life. Buds break along the limbs, and the trees return to fullness without haste, as if resurrection were simply a matter of course. To sit beneath them, whether on a bench in the Luxembourg Gardens or on the grass of Nishat, is to participate in the same ritual of stillness. The city and the valley disappear, and what remains is the vertical covenant between earth and sky. In that moment, distance collapses. Paris is not far from Kashmir, because reverence has no distance. 

                                                 

Maple trees look elegant in Paris because the city is composed to frame them with exacting proportion. Haussmann’s boulevards set a uniform scale of stone and sky that a mature maple meets without excess or absence, while precise "taille douce" pruning reveals the clean architecture of trunk and bough. Planted in rhythmic rows along the Seine and in gardens like the Luxembourg, their palmate leaves create a deliberate order against limestone façades and wrought iron balconies. Paris’s long, measured autumn turns the canopy gold against pale stone and grey skies, intensifying the contrast between organic texture and geometric streets. Tended as civic heirlooms and steeped in the memory of painters, benches, and unhurried afternoons, the maple inherits elegance from the rituals enacted beneath it. The tree does not merely grow in Paris; it performs there, and the city gives it a stage.

The maple is called a "caring elder" in Paris because it behaves like one: rooted in the city’s oldest gardens and boulevards, it spreads a broad canopy that shelters readers, lovers and the weary from summer heat, asking nothing in return. Often a century old, it has witnessed generations change yet returns each spring without haste and releases its leaves each autumn without complaint, modelling a quiet, dependable grace. Found in cemeteries, hospital courtyards and school yards, it keeps vigil where people mourn, heal and learn, while the city’s élagueurs tend it with "taille douce, respecting its form as one respects an elder. Beneath its boughs benches gather memory, and in a city that honours memory, the maple becomes a living archive of small tendernesses. It is not a botanical title but a reputation earned through steadiness, shade, and unhurried watchfulness.

Chinar trees look elegant in Kashmir because the valley itself becomes their pedestal. They rise to immense height, often exceeding 25 metres, yet the vast amphitheatre of mountains keeps them in proportion and makes their scale feel noble rather than overwhelming. Their broad, palmate leaves and massive, mottled trunks are reflected in the still waters of Dal Lake and set against terraced Mughal gardens, where the geometry of Charbagh  channels and fountains gives their wild grandeur a frame. Kashmir’s long, luminous autumn stains the canopy a deep gold and crimson that seems to catch fire against snow-capped peaks and slate skies, while in winter their bare limbs stand like the anatomy of a "Faquir" , stark and ascetic against the valley’s white hush. Planted centuries ago at shrines, courtyards and royal gardens, they are tended as living heritage and carry the weight of poets, saints and gatherings, so their elegance is not only botanical but inherited from the rituals of shade, story and silence that have unfolded beneath them for generations.

The Chinar is still loved as a grandmother in Kashmir because it mothers the landscape with the same unhurried, enveloping care. Planted centuries ago at shrines, courtyards and village greens, these great trees have shaded generations of births, weddings and funerals, becoming living witnesses to family memory. Their massive trunks are mottled like aged hands, their canopy spreads wide enough to gather whole assemblies beneath, and in autumn they shed leaves like stories, gold and crimson, to carpet the earth for children to run through. In winter they stand bare and austere, yet still dignified, teaching endurance; in spring they return to tenderness without being asked. Like a grandmother, the Chinar does not command, it shelters. It keeps silence when grief comes, offers coolness when tempers flare, and marks time so patiently that people measure their own lives against it. To sit under a Chinar iis to feel watched over by something older, wiser, and deeply, quietly familial.Chinar tree is known as Booen in Kashmiri. So close is this tree to the life and culture of Kashmir, that it finds mention in the Kashmiri poetry as well. Even the 14th-century saint poetess Lal Ded has used it. I quote Lal Ded:-

 “Kentchan roenni tchheyi shihij booen ,

 Nerav neibur ta shuhul karav”

“For some people, the wives prove like the grand Chinar tree ,

 Be near them and you feel the comfort of their cool shade ”

                                          

              ( Maple leaf on the road in Paris )

                                            

        ( A Maple leaf decoration in a Paris house )

Artists in Paris and India love the maple and Chinar leaf because both are ready-made emblems of order inside change. The palmate shape gives an immediate geometry: five to seven lobes spread like fingers from a single point, each vein a deliberate line, so the leaf offers structure, rhythm, and balance before a pencil even touches paper. In Paris, the maple leaf becomes shorthand for autumn in the Luxembourg Gardens, its shift from green to gold to russet set against Haussmann stone, and artists use it to capture transience framed by permanence. In India, especially Kashmir, the Chinar leaf carries centuries as the boon motif in papier-mâché, woodcarving, and shawls, a symbol of home, time, and the valley itself. Both leaves perform the same theatre of seasons: tender in spring, dense in summer, incandescent in autumn, and architectural in winter, giving painters a subject that is at once decorative, symbolic, and honest. For an artist, they are nature’s proof that elegance is not decoration added from outside, but structure revealed from within.

The maple and the chinar endure not merely as timber or shade, but as embodiments of a philosophy in which utility is inseparable from meaning. The maple, tapped for syrup, yields sweetness only through wounding, a quiet ethic that nourishment requires sacrifice, and that what is drawn from a living thing must be taken in measure. Its wood, shaped into violins and floors, translates resilience into resonance and daily tread, turning the ethic of service into objects that bear human touch across generations. The chinar, meanwhile, practices a philosophy of witness. Planted at shrines and gardens, it does not produce for market but presides, teaching that a life’s highest use may be to remain, to gather people without command, and to mark time so faithfully that memory itself takes root in its shadow. Where the maple instructs through transformation, the chinar instructs through duration. Together they propose that true usefulness is not extraction but relation: to give without depletion, to shelter without possession, and to stand as proof that care, patience, and presence are also forms of work the world depends upon.

The maple and the  Chinar teach that identity is not exhausted by place. A tree is not French or Kashmiri. It is an upright patience, a witness to centuries, a keeper of silence. To recognise the  Chinar in the maple is to recognise that beauty migrates through likeness, and that the human spirit, when it looks closely, finds its homeland everywhere.

( Avtar Mota )

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.

Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.

ALAIN DELON (1935-2024) : THE DILIP KUMAR OF FRENCH CINEMA

                                         

                         

     

  

ALAIN DELON (1935-2024) : THE DILIP KUMAR OF FRENCH CINEMA 

To describe Alain Delon as the “Dilip Kumar of French cinema” is to acknowledge a profound kinship between two titans who, though separated by geography and language, reshaped the very grammar of screen performance in their respective nations. Both men emerged during the 1950s and 1960s, an epoch when post-war cinema was searching for new heroes, and both answered that call not with bombast but with introspection. Dilip Kumar ascended as the “Tragedy King” of Hindi cinema, whilst Delon became the face of European existential cool. Yet their true common ground was a shared revolution in acting. Each rejected the heightened theatricality that had dominated earlier decades, pioneering instead a restrained, psychological realism that trusted the audience to read sorrow in a downturned gaze or defiance in a rigid jawline. They made stillness cinematic. In doing so, they altered the expectations of an entire generation of filmgoers and filmmakers, proving that a leading man’s power could reside in what he withheld rather than what he declared.

The texture of their artistry reveals further symmetry. Delon’s immortal turn as Jef Costello in Jean-Pierre Melville’s , "Le Samouraï",  is a masterclass in minimalist portraiture , a lone hitman whose rituals and silences articulate an entire philosophy of detachment. One recognises the same emotional terrain in Dilip Kumar’s Devdas and  Mughal-e-Azam,  where the protagonist’s torment is conveyed through measured pauses, subtle tremors of the voice, and eyes that seem to carry centuries of longing. Both actors were blessed with extraordinary physical beauty, yet they refused to be imprisoned by it. Where lesser stars might have traded on looks alone, Delon and Kumar wielded their presence in service of complexity, inhabiting flawed, often tragic men who lingered in the memory precisely because they were not invincible. Their selectivity was legendary. Neither chased volume; both curated legacies. Delon’s collaborations with Visconti in Rocco and His Brothers and Antonioni in  L’Ecliss stand as cornerstones of art cinema, just as Kumar’s work with Bimal Roy and K. Asif became foundational texts for Indian filmmaking. They understood that ubiquity dilutes mystique, and so each film became an event, a deliberate statement rather than a mere credit.

It is fitting, then, that their countries recognised them as national treasures. France honoured Delon with an Honorary Palme d’Or at Cannes in 2019, a lifetime tribute to an actor who had become synonymous with Gallic elegance and cinematic daring. India conferred upon Dilip Kumar the Dadasaheb Phalke Award and the Padma Vibhushan, acknowledgements of a career that had elevated the very craft of acting on the subcontinent. But their most enduring legacy cannot be measured in trophies. It lives in influence. Walk through the film schools of Paris or Mumbai and you will find students still studying how Delon held a frame without speaking, or how Kumar could fracture a heart with a single, quiet line. They taught cinema that vulnerability and virility are not opposites, and that a hero’s greatest battles are often fought within. To place them side by side is not to equate their cultures, but to celebrate a rare species of artist: the kind who appears once in a generation, redefines the medium, and leaves behind not just films, but a new way of seeing. France had Alain Delon. India had Dilip Kumar. The screen, in both its languages, was immeasurably enriched by their presence.

 Both rejected the declamatory, theatrical style dominant before them. Both made interiority visible. Audiences and critics lumped them under “method” because they were naturalistic_when naturalism was new. They were something rarer: originals who arrived at realism their own way, and made everyone else catch up.

( Avtar Mota )

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.

Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.

A FILM ON ALBERT CAMUS'S NOVEL, 'THE OUTSIDER '

                                            

                                           

                                        

(Algiers, February 1967. Anna Karina and Marcello Mastroianni on the set of "The Stranger", a film by Luchino Visconti based on Albert Camus's novel  .)

L’Étranger (1967), released in English as "The Stranger",  is Luchino Visconti’s film adaptation of Albert Camus’s  1942 existential novel. Shot on location in Algiers, it stars Marcello Mastroianni as Meursault, a detached French-Algerian who commits an apparently motiveless murder on a beach and faces trial not just for the crime, but for his refusal to perform grief or conform to social expectations. 

Anna Karina plays Marie, his lover. Visconti, known for opulent period dramas like 'The Leopard', took a restrained approach here to match Camus’s spare prose, but critics still found the film too lush and lyrical for the book’s alienated tone. Released five years after Algeria won independence from France, the production was politically charged, since Camus himself was a pied-noir whose views on the war raised controversy. 

Production & Style

Visconti fought hard to get the rights from Camus’ widow. He wanted Alain Delon for Meursault but ended up with Marcello Mastroianni, who had to strip away his usual charismatic,' La Dolce Vita' persona to play someone emotionally blank. Visconti insisted on shooting in Algeria despite the political tension post-independence because Camus’ novel is inseparable from the Algiers light and heat. Cinematographer Giuseppe Rotunno gave it a bleached, sun-drunk look, harsh midday glare, whitewashed walls, and blinding beaches that physically explain Meursault’s famous “it was the sun” defence.

Key Differences From the Novel

Camus wrote in flat, almost affectless prose to show Meursault’s alienation. Visconti couldn’t replicate that tone visually, so he leaned into sensuality: the textures of sand, water, Marie’s dress, the courtroom sweat. Critics like Pauline Kael argued this made Meursault look sympathetic rather than absurd. Visconti also softened the colonial context. The Arab man Meursault kills is barely named or developed, just like in the book, which later drew postcolonial critiques of both Camus and the film.

Reception & Legacy

The film premiered at Venice in 1967 to mixed reviews. European audiences respected Mastroianni’s restrained performance; he won Best Actor at Venice, but many Camus readers felt it missed the book’s philosophical punch. In the U.S., it barely registered. Over time, it’s become a “beautiful failure”: not the definitive ' Stranger ', but a fascinating document of two things: 1) 1960s art cinema trying to adapt unfilmable literature, and 2) Visconti testing how far his baroque style could be stripped down. 

During filming, Anna Karina and Mastroianni didn’t speak much off-camera. She was fresh off her split with Godard and deep in the French New Wave world; he was Italian cinema royalty. Visconti reportedly liked that distance; it matched Marie and Meursault’s detached relationship. The 'Paris Match' photographer Georges Menager captured them between takes, because the set was swarmed by the press. Everyone wanted to see how Visconti would handle Camus.

The Turkish Version: 'Yabancı'

In Turkey, Luchino Visconti’s 1967 adaptation is known as 'Yabancı', directly translating Camus’s title, ’ L’étranger ’. The film reached Turkish audiences in the early 1970s, a period when existentialist literature was hugely influential amongst Turkish intellectuals and university students. Camus’s novel had already been translated as Yabancı in 1954 by Vedat Gunyol, and the book’s themes of alienation, bureaucracy, and the absurd resonated strongly in a country navigating rapid modernisation and political tension. Consequently, the film was largely screened in arthouse cinemas and university film societies in Istanbul and Ankara, rather than receiving a wide commercial release. Turkish critics at the time praised Marcello Mastroianni’s detached portrayal, arguing that it captured the “ provincial clerk " sensibility that many Turkish readers had projected onto Meursault. 

The Turkish version itself was not dubbed but subtitled, preserving Mastroianni’s original Italian dialogue alongside the French-speaking courtroom scenes. This choice maintained the film’s sense of linguistic and cultural displacement, which mirrored the novel’s colonial Algerian setting. For Turkish viewers, Yabancı became inseparable from Camus’s text in intellectual discourse, often taught in literature departments alongside the novel. Whilst it never achieved mainstream popularity, the film retains a cult status amongst Turkish cinephiles and existentialist circles. To this day, Yabancı is referenced in Turkish criticism as a benchmark for philosophical adaptations, noted for its uncompromising tone and fidelity to Camus’s bleak, sun-drenched vision of the absurd.

Francois Ozon’s Version of ' L’Etranger' (2024)

François Ozon’s black-and-white adaptation of Camus’s 1942 novel, filmed in 2024 with Benjamin Voisin as Meursault, returns L’Étranger to the screen with deliberate austerity. Shooting in monochrome strips Algiers of its postcard heat and instead renders it as a landscape of stark shadows and moral ambiguity, emphasising the novel’s themes of alienation and the absurd. Ozon’s decision to keep the story in its original colonial setting has reignited debate in France over Camus’s portrayal or omission of Algerian identity. 

The film arrived amid renewed scrutiny of how L’Étranger sidelines the Arab victim, who is nameless and voiceless in both book and film, at a time when France is still reckoning with the legacy of the Algerian War of Independence that ended in 1962. By leaning into the novel’s discomfort rather than softening it, Ozon forces contemporary audiences to confront the political silence at the heart of Camus’s existential masterpiece, asking whether Meursault’s detachment can still be read as purely philosophical in a post-colonial context.

.What Camus Had Said About Filming His Novel

Camus died in 1960, 7 years before Visconti’s version, so he never saw it. But he did talk about adaptation. He was sceptical it could be filmed. In 1958 letters, he told producers the book’s power came from style:  the flat, first-person, and present-tense voice. “The cinema will necessarily make Meursault either sympathetic or monstrous,” he wrote. “He is neither.” He feared an actor’s face would add psychology that isn’t in the text.  He rejected American offers. Several Hollywood studios wanted it in the 1950s. Camus said no because they wanted to add a love story, a clear motive, or a redemptive ending. He told Gallimard: “They want to explain Meursault. The point is that he cannot be explained.” His one condition: "If it was ever made, it should not betray the “dry light” of Algeria. He didn’t want romance or tragedy. He wanted the indifference of the world to be physical: heat, light, and sea salt. Visconti actually honoured that part, even if he added too much beauty. Visconti’s film failed by being 'too cinematic', exactly what Camus feared.

While Mastroianni’s performance was praised, the film is now remembered more as a striking visual artefact of 1960s European art cinema than as a definitive take on Camus.

( Avtar Mota )

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.

Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.

THE SONG "JAANE TU YA JAANE NA " HAS ENTERED HEARTS IN NORTH AFRICA AND ARAB WORLD

                         

                                                    

"Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na": How a 1973 Kishore Kumar Ballad Became an Unlikely Anthem Across the Arab World and North Africa

"Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na": How a 1973 Kishore Kumar Ballad Became an Unlikely Anthem Across the Arab World and North Africa

Tera mujhse hai pehle ka naata koyi, 

Yoon hi nahi dil lubhaata koi..  

Jaane tu ya jaane na, 

Maane tu ya maane na.

My Algerian friend in Paris keeps humming this song when I visit his shop. The Coiffure from Tunisia plays it often in his shop. Ibrah, the gym instructor living in our neighbourhood, does a slow step dance on the lilting beats of this song.

In a wedding hall in Algiers, a pianist in a Marrakech riad, a taxi rolling through the 18th arrondissement of Paris at 1 a.m., or a family gathering in Sharjah, the same melody often surfaces. It is not Umm Kulthum, not Fairouz, not Cheb Khaled. Written by Sahir Ludhianavi, it is Kishore Kumar, singing “Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na” from the 1973 Shashi Kapoor–Sharmila Tagore film," Aa Gale Lag Jaa". 

Fifty-two years on, R.D. Burman’s composition has not faded. It has migrated. From Mumbai to Maghreb, from Cairo to the banlieues of Lyon, the song has taken root in Arab and North African cultural life with a tenacity that few non-Arabic songs can claim. This is the story of how it happened and why it endures.

1. The Bollywood Bridge: 1970s to 1990s

The first conduit was cinema. From the late 1960s through the 1980s, Hindi films were a staple on state television and in cinemas across Algeria, Morocco, Tunisia, Egypt, Lebanon, Syria and the Gulf. Shashi Kapoor, with his urbane charm and expressive eyes, was especially beloved. "Aa Gale Lag Jaa" was dubbed into Arabic and French, broadcast repeatedly during Eid and summer holidays, and sold on VHS in every video stall from Casablanca to Damascus.

For a generation, Kishore Kumar’s voice became as familiar as Abdel Halim Hafez’s. The song’s placement in the film: a moment of tender, fated love,  aligned perfectly with Arab cinematic sensibilities. It was not an item-number spectacle; it was Tarab, that Arabic concept of musical ecstasy rooted in longing. The groundwork was laid before satellite TV even existed.

2. Melodic Kinship: Why the Tune Feels Like Home

R.D. Burman’s arrangement is the quiet engine of the song’s crossover. The composition leans on a lilting 6/8 rhythm, soft guitar arpeggios, and a flute motif that mirrors the "Ney"  so central to Arab classical music. The melody moves in minor scales with gentle meend,  slides between notes that recall Andalusi and Malouf traditions.

Kishore Kumar’s delivery avoids ornamentation. He sings straight from the chest, with a conversational ache. To ears raised on Dahmane El Harrachi, Warda, or Sabah Fakhri, that restraint reads as sincerity. The song does not demand to be understood linguistically; it is understood musically. In British parlance, it doesn’t shout, it confides.

3. The Lyrics: Mektoub and Ghorba in Hindi

The lyric, penned by Sahir Ludhianvi, is the other pillar. “Tera mujhse hai pehle ka naata koyi” or  “You and I share some ancient bond”  translates directly into the Maghrebi and Arab concept of Mektoub: it is written, it is fated. “Yoon hi nahi dil lubhaata koyi” or  “Not just anyone can charm the heart like this”  speaks to a culture where love is rarely casual.

Then comes “Jaane tu ya jaane na, maane tu ya maane na” or  “Whether you know it or not, whether you accept it or not”. In regions shaped by labour migration, student exile, and family separation, that line became a proxy for Ghorba,  the ache of distance. For an Algerian in Nanterre phoning home, or a Lebanese nurse in Dubai missing Beirut, the words fit without translation. The song proclaims the universality of human emotions.

4. Weddings: The Song as Ritual

Walk into a wedding in Oran, Fez, Sfax, or Beirut, and you will likely hear it. Arab and North African weddings prize the slow dance,  the Zéffa,  the moment of hushed reverence. DJs from Paris to Doha keep “Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na” on the USB stick for precisely that moment. 

Why? Because it does three things at once: it is romantic without being suggestive, it is recognisable across generations, and it carries the weight of fate. The "Pehle ka naata" line gives couples and their parents a narrative: this is not just a match, it is destiny. In hotels from Gammarth to Agadir, resident pianists play it during dinner service for the same reason. It signals elegance, nostalgia, and cultural fluency.

5. The Diaspora Engine: France as Amplifier

France is where the song’s second life accelerated. With over six million citizens of Maghrebi origin, plus sizeable Lebanese, Egyptian and Syrian communities, France became the transmission belt. In the 1990s, children of immigrants discovered their parents’ Kishore Kumar cassettes. By the 2000s, those songs were being burned to CDs for 3ers ceremonies and fer7 parties.

YouTube and Dailymotion did the rest. A clip of Shashi Kapoor and Sharmila Tagore in the rain has 40M+ views, with top comments in French, Arabic, and darija: “La chanson de mariage de mes parents”, “Chaque fois que je l’écoute je pense au bled”. TikTok completed the cycle. Today, #jaanetu and #aagalelagjaa tag videos of Franco-Algerian couples in Saint-Denis, Moroccan henna nights in Marseille, and sunset drives along the Corniche in Ain Diab.

The diaspora did not merely preserve the song; it re-exported it. A trend in Lyon reaches Algiers in 48 hours. A wedding in Bobigny sets the playlist for a wedding in Tlemcen next month.

6. The Pan-Arab Effect: Beyond the Maghreb

While the Maghreb–France axis is the strongest, the song’s reach extends east. In Egypt, where Kishore Kumar is still referred to as “Kishore al-hindī”, the track is played on Nile FM’s Bollywood Hour and at Alexandrian weddings. In Lebanon, it surfaces in the piano bars of Hamra. In the Gulf, South Asian and Arab communities overlap. A Pakistani DJ in Dubai will drop it for an Emirati-Emirati couple because the bride’s mother grew up with it on Dubai TV’s Friday Hindi film slot.

The Arabic music tradition of Taqasim improvisation within a melodic frame means listeners are attuned to songs that breathe. “Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na” breathes. It leaves space. That quality makes it coverable. Oud players in Amman, Rai singers in Oran, and Khaleeji keyboardists in Kuwait have all recorded versions, often blending Hindi and Arabic verses.

7. Technology and Memory: Cassette to TikTok

The song’s journey tracks the technology of memory. 1970s: vinyl and cinema. 1980s: VHS and state TV reruns. 1990s: cassettes in the glovebox of a Peugeot 405. 2000s: burned CDs labelled “Mariage de Samira”. 2010s: YouTube compilations titled “Best of Kishore Kumar, Slowed and  Reverb”. 2020s: TikTok audios tagged “POV: you’re far from home”.

Each format shed listeners who didn’t connect and kept those who did. What remains is an audience that is self-selecting, emotionally invested, and geographically vast.

8. Why It Endures: Seven Core Reasons

1. Melodic Universality: The tune maps onto maqam Bayati and Kurd, scales common in Arab music. No ‘foreign’ notes jar the ear.  

2. Lyrical Fatalism: Mektoub is a shared philosophy. The song articulates it without preaching.  

3. Generational Inheritance: It is a song of parents and grandparents, lending it familial authority. A father who courted his wife to this song expects it at his daughter’s wedding.  

4. Diaspora Utility: It expresses  Ghorba and haneen, homesickness, better than most Arabic pop songs, because it is one step removed. It allows nostalgia without nationalism.  

5. Cinematic Memory: Shashi Kapoor’s softness, Sharmila Tagore’s Sari, the Mumbai rains, these images are coded as ‘romantic’ across the Arab world. The song summons the whole scene.  

6. Ritual Fit: At 3:48, mid-tempo, with a clear build, it is structurally perfect for wedding entrances, first dances, and hotel lobby sets.  

7. Non-Linguistic Emotion: You do not need Hindi to feel it. The Dard in Kishore’s voice, the sigh in the flute, the resolve in the final version in “jaane na”, these are legible anywhere.

A Shared Inheritance

“Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na” is no longer merely a Bollywood song. In Arab and North African contexts, it has become a piece of shared cultural furniture, like mint tea or a photo of a 1970s wedding. It belongs to the Algerian father in Drancy who played it on his wedding day in 1984, and to his French-born daughter who chose it for hers in 2026.

The line “Tera mujhse hai pehle ka naata koyi” turns out to be prophetic. There was some old bond, not between the characters in the film, but between a Bombay studio in 1973 and a living room in Constantine, a taxi in Cairo, a banquet hall in Dubai. Whether the listeners know the literal meaning or not, whether they "maane"  or  "maane na",  the song has already charmed the heart. 

( Avtar Mota )

PS

I heard Mektoub and Ghorba, two words over here, used by immigrants from North Africa. Mektoub is written fate, destiny, whatever was ordained by God.  Ghorba is Exile, the ache of living far from home, homesickness in a foreign land. Mektoub explains why you’re in Ghorba, and Ghorba _ is where you feel Mektoub most.

CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.

Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.